


Phantom and a Rose

by lasciel



Series: Something About Us [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3362531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasciel/pseuds/lasciel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A precious gift freely given, with no hidden angle or elaborate intention. </p><p><i>Of course not</i>, he chides himself. Hasn't Lavellan proven often enough already that he is nothing like Dorian's past lovers? </p><p>And yet, his breathing stutters, familiar agitation encroaching on the edges of his mind. </p><p>Dorian might have left Tevinter behind, but it seems her black and golden dominion is still deeply embedded into every fibre of his being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantom and a Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Again, a huge thank you to [aphelion_orion](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aphelion_orion/pseuds/aphelion_orion) for being an amazing friend and beta. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my doing.
> 
> Spoilers for the main quest _In Hushed Whispers_ and its aftermath.
> 
> Title taken from a _Secret of Mana/Seiken Densetsu 2_ song.

It has been a murky, unfriendly-looking morning. With Lavellan busy playing at the war table with his advisors, Dorian finally has the time to catch up on some sorely neglected reading. 

Only recently he was lucky enough to acquire a very rare Tevinter tome that has been banned in his homeland for its unacademic and erroneous portrayal of Tevinter's history of slavery, but he hasn't been able to study it yet. 

On his way up the circular stairs, he considers the book. It's a heavy, ugly-looking thing — the material of the cover is uncomfortable to the touch, and of a horrendous crimson shade. Honesty, the only thing missing are tacky golden letters spelling the title.

He knows it's illogical but Dorian doesn't want the book and Lavellan in the same room. Not that Lavellan would be able to read it, knowing almost no Tevene. 

Dorian has never been one to deny himself knowledge, and yet... he feels as if by pursuing this book, he has admitted to being _wrong_. 

It is not a feeling he entertains often, much less enjoys.

Usually, he's able to tune out the chatter in this part of Skyhold, the permanent screeching of the crows a mere background noise — today he has the sense of being scrutinised, of every pair of eyes that meet his judging him.

Relieved to finally be able to evade them, Dorian slips into the corner he has claimed for himself, his retreat, and turns the heavy armchair to face the small window.

It helps, and he lets himself fall into the welcoming embrace of the chair, the tension in his back easing almost immediately.

He traces the binding of the book — blank, non descriptive — and opens the first page. Only the book's title, no author credited. Familiar excitement and curiosity penetrate through the apprehension he's feeling. He settles himself into the chair more comfortably, and begins to read.

 

* * *

 

Very soon he realises that _unacademic and erroneous_ are synonymous with _first-hand_ and _inconvenient_. 

Being from Tevinter himself, Dorian probably shouldn't be quite so surprised by this.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, he wishes he had brought something real to drink with him, and not simply water. 

Anything would do at this point. 

Even one of the potentially lethal bottles Lavellan keeps bringing home for his collection.

 

* * *

 

Later still there's a commotion outside, raised voices and a sense of urgency travelling through Skyhold in its wake. Dorian is so relieved for the excuse to stop reading, he's ashamed for it. He doesn't get up, doesn't have the energy the motion requires. He simply listens to the voices until they die down. 

Dorian sighs, steels himself, and continues reading.

 

* * *

 

Dusk is approaching when Lavellan finds him. He slips onto the armrest on Dorian's right, leans over him and rests his head on Dorian's hair. Dorian closes the book, and not only because Lavellan is blocking the light of the candle.

“You smell like... did you use my soap?” Dorian asks, only slightly incredulous.

Lavellan sighs happily and pushes his nose into Dorian's hair, inhaling audibly. 

_Maybe I shouldn't have given him free reign over my hair after all_ , Dorian thinks ruefully. 

Lavellan's voice is a throaty whisper, “It's your own fault for leaving it behind last time.”

Despite the gruesome images and the doubts circling in his head, Dorian is startled into a short laugh. He coughs once, making sure his voice is steady. “Anything I can do for you, Inquisitor?”

“No, no,” Lavellan answers, quiet and dreamy. One of his hands comes to rest on Dorian's hair on the side not occupied by Lavellan's face. “I'm just enjoying a moment with your hair. Don't trouble yourself.”

Dorian's next laugh feels more natural, freeing almost. “I think I've unwittingly created a depraved fiend!” He reaches for Lavellan's arm and tugs. 

Lavellan gasps, only his reflexes saving him from not landing on the floor. He scoots closer to the edge of the armrest so they can look at each other, the hand that had been fondling his hair now resting high up on Dorian's thigh.

Dorian freezes, remembering the haunting eyes all around them. He opens his mouth, reaching for Lavellan's bold hand to remove it from its compromising position — and stops.

Lavellan's knuckles look like a Bronto has trampled over them. Repeatedly. A horrible patchwork of bruises and open gashes, it's a wonder Lavellan hasn't bleed on the colourful rug under them.

“Don't worry, almost everyone is out helping or having dinner,” Lavellan murmurs, mistaking the reason for Dorian's sudden silence.

“ _What —_ “ Dorian swallows. He tugs at Lavellan again until he comes to stand before Dorian, and inspects both of his hands, holding him at arm's length. 

It's very telling that Lavellan lets him without making a sound. 

“What did you _do_? Did you try to beat up the war table and it _won_?”

Lavellan snorts, undeniably evading Dorian's eyes. He tries to tug his hands out of Dorian's grip.

Dorian is having none of that. 

“Well?” he insists, when no answer seems to be forthcoming. Lavellan _fidgets_ under his tone and stare. Dorian will not let his amusement show on his face. He will _not_.

Lavellan finally answers, sounding sullen. “I needed to clear my head after the war table meeting. Cassandra offered to spar with me.”

Dorian closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

When he opens them again, Lavellan is looking at him, mouth a morose line. Dorian looks back at Lavellan's hands and continues his examination. Once he's satisfied that the wounds are only superficial, he casts a spell under his breath, cooling the almost feverishly hot skin and healing it at the same time.

Bathed in its soft, blue light, they both watch his magic do its work.

When he speaks again, Dorian doesn't even try to soften the note of harshness in his voice. “And why, pray tell, was there no mage to be found to heal you, when you were done getting your behind beaten by Cassandra?”

Lavellan's shoulders drop in silent defeat.

Dorian waits.

“There was a demon attack on a village not that far away. The ones who survived made it here not long ago.”

So that had been the reason for the commotion earlier, and the quietness that had settled over this part of Skyhold. Dorian traces the now healed fingers still clasped in his hands, and waits for Lavellan to continue.

“I figured they'd need all the potions and their magic for them.” 

Once he sees the scowl on Dorian's face, he quickly amends, “It wasn't that bad! No broken bones, just a few scratches. Those people are more important right now.”

Whatever steals over Dorian's face at his words makes Lavellan's voice trail off.

Dorian swallows the first furious exclamation, already on the tip of his tongue — There is nothing more important than the Inquisitor! — then the ones that clamour to take its place.

The last thing he wants right now is to attract unwanted attention to them. Voices echo in these stone walls. 

He closes his eyes, calming himself, even manages to smile at Lavellan when he speaks again. “You _do_ know that there are more civilised methods for clearing your head, don't you? There's a perfectly well-stocked tavern almost right next to that ring of dirt you call a training ground.”

For a moment, Lavellan looks oddly tense. He doesn't say anything, regarding Dorian with an indecipherable look in his eyes.

Before Dorian can wonder too much about the cause of his reaction, Lavellan seems to shake himself, his eyes wandering to their still entwined hands.

Dorian has the sudden urge to fill the prolonged silence between them. He turns slightly in the chair, confirming that there really is nobody in sight. Then he takes his ignored book in one and Lavellan's right arm into his other hand.

He pulls and Lavellan dutifully steps closer, a small smile on his lips. 

Dorian's relieved to see it after the almost tangible uneasiness that had been hanging between them only moments before. He wants to keep it there.

He makes sure his voice carries this time in the hush of the circular building. “Now come, brave leader, and tell uncle Dorian what those mean advisors did to you.” By now he's almost hoping that there's still somebody lurking about — at least he wouldn't be playing his role for nothing, then.

Lavellan smirks and lets himself be manoeuvred until he sits askew the chair, legs dangling over the armrest he'd been balancing on before, seated between Dorian's spread thighs, pressed closely against him.

Once seated, Lavellan sighs, turning to face him and touching their foreheads together. His eyes are closed, face entirely relaxed. 

Trusting.

Combined with their current position this is almost too much, too intimate. As if sensing Dorian's inner tumult, Lavellan withdraws, only to nestle closer into Dorian's side, head coming to rest on Dorian's shoulder.

Lavellan has not let go of Dorian's hand, and now clasps it in both of his, voice very quiet. “You probably heard of the three mages who...” he swallows audibly, “...who tried to run away.” 

_Interesting_ , Dorian notes absently, _he refuses to call it an escape attempt._

Dorian hums a confirmation. He sees Fiona almost daily. And it is impossible not to eavesdrop on every word spoken in this area — even should he ever be so inclined.

Lavellan has still not let go of Dorian's hand. Perspiration is making it a bit uncomfortable, but Dorian lets him keep holding onto it.

“Fiona cornered me before I got to the war room this morning.” Lavellan is now absently stroking the hand he's holding captive.

Dorian quells an amused snort at the mental image of prim, erstwhile First Enchanter Fiona cornering _anybody_ , much less the Inquisitor. _Then again..._ He reconsiders. She commands an undeniable presence when she needs it. 

Maybe he shouldn't underestimate her.

“She told me their names, and what Circle life had been like for them.” The hold on his hand tightens, becoming almost painful. 

Dorian's mind has no trouble filling the gaps. _Certainly not mages from one of Vivienne's precious Circles, then._

“She said they were scared, that young people make mistakes when they're scared.”

Dorian makes a soothing sound, carefully placing his book in Lavellan's lap, using his now free hand to ease the tight grip Lavellan has on his other one. 

Grudgingly he has to commend that shrewd woman's thinking. 

Get the Inquisitor alone and tell him the woeful tale of your fledging mages — make him see them as real persons instead of just pieces of information on a report.

 _She would do well in Tevinter_ , but that is probably a thought he should keep well to himself.

When Lavellan remains silent, Dorian nudges him gently with his thigh, inquiring, “What did our esteemed advisors have to say about this mess?”

Dorian doesn't even need to see it to know Lavellan is rolling his eyes.

“Josephine said she would prefer to 'sit this one out'.” 

Dorian is glad his smile is hidden from Lavellan's view — he really doesn't need to know Dorian finds his jealousy of Lady Montilyet being able to abate on decisions to be utterly adorable.

Lavellan continues, voice bleak again. “Cullen was _furious_. He didn't scream for their heads, but... he was very quiet.” 

Dorian nods, hoping Lavellan will be able to feel it, should he have his eyes closed. 

An overly quiet Cullen is never a good sign.

Lavellan sighs softly, and his humid breath on the skin of Dorian's neck sends some very distinct signals to his body. He tries to will the arousal away, and finds it to be more difficult than usual. He has his amatus in his arms, body warm and smelling of Dorian's soap, more intoxicating than even Antivan wine. 

It's the best distraction he could ever have wished for, faced with the doubts he's having about the image he has cultivated of Tevinter.

But Dorian's mind has always been stronger than his body.

Lavellan seems oblivious to the arousal he has sparked inside of Dorian. “He told me later that the sergeant they wounded will probably never be able to fight again.” 

_Maybe Cullen should have taken to lurking in dark corners and ambushing unsuspecting Inquisitors as well to plead his case,_ he thinks sardonically. That isn't what Dorian says aloud, though. “And Leliana?”

Lavellan's body goes tense against his side.

It seems they are getting closer to the reason why Lavellan felt the need to substitute as one of Cassandra's training dummies.

Lavellan withdraws one of his hands to brace himself as he sits up, mindful of the heavy book in his lap. His eyes land on Dorian's chin and stay there, voice toneless.

“Cullen wanted them put in the stockade.” He swallows, collecting himself. “I couldn't do that. Not after what Fiona told me.” He's still appealing to Dorian's moustache. 

Dorian doesn't move.

“Leliana...” He will not meet Dorian's eyes. “She said we should give them the freedom they wanted.”

Dorian feels instantly wary. _That doesn't sound quite so bad?_

Lavellan meets his eyes when he rushes out his next words, watching for his reaction. “She really meant banished from the Inquisition.”

Dorian tries, but he can't quite hide his flinch. Strong fingers take hold of the thin fabric on his chest, as if Lavellan is afraid Dorian will want to _flee_ from him.

Dorian sorts through his thoughts, wondering what Lavellan expects from him now. His opinion? An absolution? The desperation in Lavellan's eyes speaks for the latter.

“Severe imprisonment or outright banishment, that's the options they presented you with?” he inquires, more to fill the heavy silence than anything else. 

Lavellan nods and the tight grip he has on Dorian loosens a bit. 

It's no wonder Lady Montilyet had wanted to stay out of this one. 

Dorian will have to tread carefully.

“You know that I wondered why you'd take the mages as your prisoners,right after we had just freed them from Alexius' influence and the Venatori's clutches?”

“You said you understood,” Lavellan mumbles. Dorian is probably only imagining the accusatory note to his voice.

Well, what else could he have said? He'd still been new to the Inquisition, unsure of his position in it. It had been enough that the mages would not be of any help to the Venatori's plans, that Alexius and Felix had survived. For a while at least, in Felix' case.

Dorian doesn't think any of this would be very helpful of him to point out, now, with Lavellan so obviously on edge and doubting the decision he has made.

He places his hands on Lavellan's hips. “I did,” he assures him, while thinking, _I do now._

Of course Lavellan would want to discuss mages and freedom with him _today_ , while that cursed book is lying in his lap and its unsettling content is eagerly eating away at the everlasting shine Tevinter always had in Dorian's mind. 

Whoever is sitting up there, directing their fate, they must really be enjoying a good laugh at his expense right now.

Lavellan relaxes slowly, though his voice remains strained. “I thought of you.” He traces the elaborate clasps on Dorian's clothing. “Any one of those mages could have been you, if you hadn't been born in Tevinter.”

At first, the notion is so utterly ridiculous, Dorian has to school his features and reign in the amused snort that threatens at the back of his throat.

Dorian Pavus, a dog-loving _Ferelden_? What a repulsive idea.

Dorian Pavus, kept in a Ferelden Circle, caged like an animal? Absolutely laughable.

Dorian Pavus, a mere puppet at the hands of the Venatori? An actual impossibility.

Years of masking his emotions keep all of this hidden from Lavellan, who's still looking at him, earnest and expectant.

A realisation hits him and suddenly Dorian's throat is very dry. “You banished them, because you... you would want for me to have my freedom?” 

Instantly, he feels like a fool. What a preposterous thought, to _assume_ —

Lavellan nods, his eyes unnaturally large in his face.

Dorian takes a deep breath, feeling unsettled, flattered, _shaken_ —

Cassandra would _kill_ him, if she knew of the influence he wields over her precious Inquisitor. And she would not be left wanting for helping hands. Isn't this exactly what the rumours are claiming already? 

_That's what they'll say. I'm the Magister who is using you_ , hadn't Dorian voiced these exact concerns only a few weeks ago, only to have Lavellan _taunt_ him for it, like it was all a game —

Unbidden, a thought crosses his mind. 

What if he had joined the Inquisition before it had reached out to Redcliffe, if he and Lavellan had come closer then, well before Lavellan had to decide the fate of Redcliffe's mages —

He cuts the thought off viciously, reflecting, _Father would be so proud of me._

Disgusted with himself, Dorian closes his eyes, presses his forehead to Lavellan's, mimicking their earlier position. 

“Do you think I did the wrong thing?” Lavellan whispers into the air between them, and Dorian stops being a coward and opens his eyes again, meeting Lavellan's.

“No, but I will not lie to you.” 

Lavellan tenses again. 

For the sake of both of them, Dorian cannot soften his words. “They will very likely not survive out there alone, but...” He frames Lavellan's face in his hands, willing him to understand what Dorian is offering him, “... but at least they will have chosen their own fate and die free.”

Lavellan takes a shaky breath, followed by the ghost of a small smile. He closes the distance between them and presses a fleeting kiss against Dorian's lips, followed by a hushed, “Thank you.”

He falls back against Dorian's side abruptly, like all of his energy is now well and truly depleted. His head comes back to rest on Dorian's shoulder, legs dangling over the armrest once again.

For a moment they are both silent, struggling with their own thoughts.

Lavellan picks up the tome. Only now does Dorian remember it was even there.

“What are you reading?” Lavellan asks, voice steady once more, flipping the book open to a random page.

Dorian takes it from him — hopefully not too hurried in his movements — and closes it again. 

The sound of it echoes loudly around them.

Lavellan's hands fall back into his lap. Dorian can _hear_ his frown, loud and clear.

“It's a book about Ferelden agriculture.” He leaves the _it's extremely boring and not at all to your interest_ unspoken but heavily implied.

There's a pause.

“A book about Ferelden agriculture written in Tevene?” Lavellan asks drily.

Dorian scowls at the tome. He should have thought of something else. Lavellan may barely understand a word of it, but the flowing script of Tevene is easily recognisable on its own.

Lavellan gently touches one of Dorian's hands, tightly clutching the book.

“Read to me, please.”

Dorian hesitates. He'd rather fight a dragon alone and stark-naked than read this particular book to him. But picking one of the many others around them now would definitely make Lavellan too curious about this one. 

Dorian considers his options, and the tome that has already cost him both coins and nerves. 

When it fails to spontaneously combust into flames, he gives in. There's a part in the first quarter of the book that is mostly about Tevinter's early beginnings and its rise to the all powerful Imperium of history. He can probably stomach reading that bit aloud.

If Lavellan wonders at Dorian opening the book to one of the earlier parts when he had clearly been almost finished with the book before the interruption, he keeps the question to himself.

Dorian is grateful for small mercies.

 

* * *

 

The selected chapters pass far too quickly, even though Dorian reads as slowly as he possibly can. Lavellan doesn't show any indication that he's bored but neither does he ask Dorian to pick up the pace. When Dorian's voice falters and he has to swallow, Lavellan nestles closer still, breathing evenly.

It is not any easier to read a second time, to picture the atrocities his people committed — still commit — against their slaves, and elves in particular. 

How could it possibly be, with one trustingly curled against his side?

Halfway into the detailed description of the horrendous blood ritual that had allowed the magisters of old to enter the Fade and the Golden City, his voice breaks. 

Whereas before, this had only been ridiculous defamation, easily ignored, he has now met one of those magisters, living proof of the lengths Tevinter is willing to go to achieve more power.

Dorian waits and when Lavellan doesn't ask for him to continue, he realises Lavellan is fast asleep. 

Warmth spreads inside of him, soothing the churning in his stomach and calming the chaos in his mind.

 

* * *

 

After that, it's easier. He goes back to the page he stopped at when Lavellan had joined him, and finishes the book. He doesn't burn it, placing it onto the pile next to the armchair instead. 

He doesn't wake Lavellan right away even though he has long ago lost any feeling in his legs, and will most likely have awful bruises from Lavellan's ridiculously sharp hipbones.

Dorian wraps his arms around his amatus and enjoys the moment, Skyhold quiet around them. 

Even the crows seem to not begrudge him this instant of much needed equilibrium.

 

* * *

 

Dorian has to half-carry, half-drag Lavellan all the way back to his quarters, beyond grateful that the halls of Skyhold are almost completely deserted at this hour. 

Not that he doesn't have a handful of quips prepared and ready on the tip of his tongue, should they encounter anybody. 

_”That's the real problem with these hero types: they never know when it's time to go to bed.” — “Don't worry, I'll make sure the Inquisitor doesn't get lost on his way back to his quarters and accidentally ends up on Corypheus' doorstep.” — “Don't tell anybody, but I found him asleep on Solas' desk. Scandalous, isn't it?”_

Once they successfully make it into the Inquisitor's rooms, bathed in soft candlelight, the sight of the horrid monstrosity Lavellan calls his bed seems to invigorate him, because he takes the last few steps to it by himself, collapsing onto it with an excessively loud and happy groan. 

It's an entirely graceless affair. Lavellan lands face down, his arms spread apart, legs not even halfway on the bed, his ass slightly raised because of it.

The arousal in Dorian's body — until this moment barely a distant hum — returns with vigour at the sight. He spins away from Lavellan's enticing body and makes his way over to the desk in the corner.

He can distantly remember leaving a bottle of wine around here when he last was with Lavellan a few days prior. Not his favourite brand, but still good enough to get his mind off of things. 

Where was it...

Lavellan's voice drifts over to him, heavy and slightly slurred. “You can have me, if you want to. I don't mind.” 

Dorian turns around. Swallows heavily — the object of his search well and truly forgotten. 

Lavellan must have undressed himself very quickly and quietly, because he's lying on that horrendous Orlesian bed now, naked as the day he was born. Once he has Dorian's attention, he spreads his legs, one of his hands lazily drawing circles on his stomach. 

Mind blank, Dorian swallows again. 

It doesn't help.

After a moment Lavellan laughs softly, stops touching himself. 

Thankfully. 

Sadly. 

Dorian can't decide.

Lavellan reclines more comfortably on the bed, breaking eye contact with Dorian. He spreads his legs even further apart, arms splayed above his head.

“The offer expires once my eyes fall closed, you know,” he murmurs into the room, amusement distinct in his voice.

 _That_ , apparently, his addled mind can still process. Dorian swiftly walks over to the adjoined bathroom, where Lavellan always keeps some oil. 

(Later Dorian will vehemently deny to having done anything as ghastly as _running_. He had merely hastened his steps. Just a bit. Barely noticeably even, if we're being honest.)

Vial of oil in hand, Dorian falls upon Lavellan like he's a seasoned brandy out of stock, taking his left leg and placing it on his shoulder, arranging Lavellan until his ass lays bare before him — his to touch and explore.

Dorian's more than generous with the oil, but impatient, thrusting one finger into Lavellan right away, his reward a moan, but not one of protest — Dorian hesitates only for a moment before adding a second finger, barely meeting any resistance. 

Lavellan is tired and relaxed, of course, but that doesn't explain how _easy_ this is. Usually, it's only like this when... He leans in closer to Lavellan's now smirking mouth, his throat dry and his voice husky. “Did you prepare yourself for me?”

There's a wicked gleam in Lavellan's half-shut eyes, impossible to ignore this close, his reply breathless. “Your stupid soap... the smell.. couldn't stop thinking about you...”

Dorian groans loudly, staring at Lavellan in amazement.

His amatus bent over the washbasin, Dorian's soap clutched in the fingers of one hand, the fingers of his other one stretching himself open, leaning against the cold stone wall for the support his trembling legs can't offer him anymore, pleasuring himself while thinking about Dorian...

Dorian groans again, pushing his fingers more urgently inside of Lavellan, trying to suck the smug tilt to Lavellan's lips right from his mouth. One of Lavellan's hands finds its way to his hair, gripping it tightly.

Dorian is well past caring about that. 

He wants, no, he _craves_ —

 _This must be what possession feels like_ , he decides dazedly.

“You are much more dangerous to me than any desire demon could ever hope to be,” he accuses in between kisses. 

Lavellan's breathless chuckle is cut short when Dorian takes his revenge, his fingers angled just right, hitting Lavellan's prostate and making him arch off the bed, mouth open in a silent shout. 

Dorian only lets up on his assault when the hold on his hair becomes painful in warning.

Dorian's hair might never forgive him, but at least Lavellan is not looking so self-satisfied anymore. “ _Dorian_ ,” he whines, thrusting his hips back onto Dorian's fingers, imploring, “I'm ready, Dorian, _please_.”

Dorian nearly comes undone then and there, but prides himself for still having his wits about him, even now. “Oh, _amatus_. All you had to do was ask nicely.”

He almost tips the vial over the side of the bed when he reaches for it again, smearing oil onto his cock and lining himself up with Lavellan's opening.

Their eyes meet — they both breathe in. 

Lavellan runs his hand through Dorian's hair, scratching slightly. 

On their next joint exhale Dorian pushes in, smooth and deep.

He remains still for a moment, waiting for the hammering of his pulse to slow. 

Lavellan's hand falls away from him, joining its twin above his head, both touching the ornate headboard. Dorian takes his cue and starts moving again, rhythm slow but steady.

There's nothing but the sound of skin slapping on skin and Dorian's own breathing, unnaturally loud to his own ears. His fingers flex on Lavellan's thighs, pressing into the muscles there. 

Lavellan's steady breathing is the only reaction he gets. Dorian loses his pace, thrusting with more force into the welcoming heat and tightness, and it's intense —

 _Too_ intense almost, with Lavellan just looking at him through barely open eyes, a content smile on his face. 

Unsettled, Dorian slows his movements before taking Lavellan's flaccid cock into his hand, giving it a few firm strokes. 

He keeps at it until Lavellan makes a sleepy sound of protest, gently prying Dorian's hand from his unresponsive cock. Lavellan entwines their fingers together, and softly shakes his head.

Dorian peers at Lavellan's tired face, at the tender smile still gracing his lips.

Realises that this really is only about him, about his pleasure. 

A precious gift freely given, with no hidden angle or elaborate intention. 

_Of course not_ , he chides himself. Hasn't Lavellan proven often enough already that he is nothing like Dorian's past lovers? 

And yet, his breathing stutters, familiar agitation encroaching on the edges of his mind. 

Dorian might have left Tevinter behind, but it seems her black and golden dominion is still deeply embedded into every fibre of his being.

Lavellan's leg falls from his shoulder, and Dorian's cock slips out of his tight heat as he abruptly leans in closer, seeking Lavellan's embrace, his shelter. 

Dorian pays it no heed, all of a sudden, pleasure only a secondary objective. 

He presses his face to Lavellan's chest, trying to transfer the steady beating of the heart contained within to his own fluttering one. He tightens his grip on Lavellan's hand and hip, probably bordering on painful, though Lavellan doesn't protest, holding onto him equally desperately, waiting for Dorian to collect himself, to come back to him. 

His free hand gently strokes Dorian's back, drawing aimlessly with the sweat gathered there.

Dorian's mind calms. 

Now all he has to do is accept Lavellan's gift.

Before he can think too much about it, he bends down and kisses his amatus deeply, thoroughly, hoping Lavellan will understand the gratitude he feels but cannot express in words — afraid that spoken aloud, the words would overwhelm him.

Lavellan hums softly against his mouth when they part, and idly licks a long, wet stripe over his chin, mouth and moustache. A quiet chuckle escapes Dorian's lips — Lavellan squeezes his hand again, and then Dorian lets go of him.

Once again in control of himself, Dorian grabs Lavellan's legs, placing both of them over his shoulders. He grabs one of the cushions lying next to Lavellan's head, taking a moment to choose a specific one — a gift from Vivienne, an atrocity in burgundy — and nudges it underneath Lavellan's ass.

Satisfied, he leans forward, bending Lavellan's lower body to his chest as he does so. His cock slaps onto the cleft of Lavellan's ass. Languidly, he rubs himself to hardness again against the smooth skin there. Dorian observes the glistening smears he leaves along it with avid fascination, then he takes the vial again, pouring what is left of the oil onto his cock, Lavellan's ass, and the doomed cushion underneath it.

Lavellan hisses at the feeling of the lukewarm wetness on him, their eyes finding each other on instinct before Dorian pushes into him again, bending him even further with the force of it.

He meets no resistance, only Lavellan's breathing hitching once, allowing Dorian to expose him even further, to sink into him even deeper.

All that strength and power hidden in those lithe limbs — pliant in Dorian's hands, _his_ to arrange as he pleases.

Exhilarated and relying on Lavellan's battle-earned flexibility, Dorian pushes down further still, until he can reach Lavellan's mouth again, open wide and breathing loudly, his body bend nearly in half.

He licks at Lavellan's gaping mouth before plunging his tongue into it, wanting to _devour_ him whole. 

Lavellan's eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, his hands fisted into the bed covers under them.

It seems absurd now, that Dorian had ever believed he should feel ashamed for wanting this, that this all-consuming intimacy could be _wrong_.

He withdraws, leaving Lavellan's mouth an angry, messy red. Dorian begins moving again with a punishing pace, eyes locked to Lavellan's, soaking up every twitch and shudder he draws out of him.

It doesn't take long like this, hard and intense and _perfect_. Dorian comes with a loud moan, pressing it into Lavellan's mouth and his release deep into Lavellan's body.

He stays like this, overwhelmed by the intensity of his orgasm and unable to move, until Lavellan makes a plaintive sound.

Dorian withdraws as carefully as he can, probing at Lavellan's opening for any damage. Relieved when he finds it flushed pink but undamaged. Smirking, he pushes his leaking spill back into Lavellan's body with two clever fingers.

Lavellan groans and weakly kicks at him. Dorian captures the foot before it hits him, placing a tender kiss to it. “Be right back,” he promises, standing up. He draws the ruined cushion carefully out from under Lavellan's ass, viciously satisfied at its unsalvageable state. “Don't move around too much, you'll only ruin the sheets even more.” 

Lavellan's annoyed snort follows him into the bathroom.

Dorian throws the soaked cushion into an empty corner to be dealt with later — quite possibly to be burned — cleans himself quickly, and returns to find Lavellan curled into himself, eyes closed, his breathing deep and even.

He bathes Lavellan carefully with the wet cloth, mindful not to wake him. Lavellan mutters Dorian's name in his sleep, but doesn't wake.

Smiling, Dorian flings the dirty cloth into the bathroom and extinguishes the remaining candles, before quickly returning to the bed and drawing the heavy blanket over both of them, the chilly Skyhold air finally getting to him.

Lavellan's body turns to him almost immediately, moulding itself into his side.

Dorian presses him closer, suddenly beyond exhausted by the day's events.

“Ma vhenan,” Lavellan mumbles against Dorian's chest, slurred but undeniably yearning.

Dorian waits with bated breath, but Lavellan is asleep again — or maybe he hadn't even been awake to begin with.

Deep affection fills him, tinted with amusement, and finally Dorian lets sleep claim him as well, assured in the knowledge that he will remember the words tomorrow, and be able to investigate their meaning then.


End file.
